


J.A.R.V.I.S, how do you say "feel better" in Russian?

by okaynextcrisis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22323697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaynextcrisis/pseuds/okaynextcrisis
Summary: that time Natasha got the flu, and the Avengers tried to help
Kudos: 6





	J.A.R.V.I.S, how do you say "feel better" in Russian?

**Author's Note:**

> yes, i do have the flu. truth in art, peeps. caveat emptor.
> 
> (Also, it's "чувствовать себя лучше")

Places Natasha had thought she might seriously, finally, die: in the Red Room, at the small, steady hands of a competitor; in Budapest, when the Danube turned to fire; in New York, crushed into ash by Chitauri warriors. 

She'd never planned on dying in bed, of an infuriatingly basic flu virus, in an inglorious haze of Kleenex and cough drops.

But if she had, she definitely would have planned on expiring _alone_.

First it's Banner, apparently still feeling a bit guilty about her run in with...the other guy. 

"I whipped this up in the lab," he says, as he unpacks a locked suitcase directly onto her bed to reveal a single glass vial. "It's an antiviral with anti-inflammatory properties, vitamin infusions, and glucose equivalents. You'll be better in no time! Better than better, in fact!"

Natasha is not sure if he is describing a new nightmare Gamma formulation or the world's most labor-intensive Gatorade, but either way, without a definitive lab testing, she's not risking it.

She pulls her pillow over her head.

Then it's Stark, eyeing her spacious, scrupulously clean loft from behind a surgical mask like it's a roach-infested double-wide. "No wonder you're sick in these conditions," he mumbles, typing into his phone with blue latex-gloved fingers. "Give me two secs..."

She should stop him, she figures, but doesn't Stark Industries--screw that, the world?--owe her a new mattress, fridge, and flat screen with surround sound? At least she'll die on a pillow-topped California King with what, unless her fever is making her delirious, Tony is describing, minus any irony, as "space foam."

Rogers comes next, ambling in with a Tupperware container that he sets about heating up in her microwave, an appliance she has never, in five years, once used. "My mother's chicken soup recipe," he explains. "I made it myself!"

"I have no doubt," Natasha mumbles into her pillow.

(It's actually, secretly, not half bad.)

Clint appears on her windowsill, suddenly and swiftly enough to thoroughly startle anyone who isn't Black Widow. "You need to to increase your security," he advises, slipping away onto the roof. "I'll keep watch till you're back on your feet."

At this point, three days into this ridiculous pestilence, death via armed intruder seems like a marked improvement in her circumstances, but it's too much effort to argue with him, so Natasha doesn't.

She doesn't lift her head again until she hears the confident click of heels on tile.

"I heard you were sick," Pepper Potts says, simultaneously taking her temperature and throwing used tissues into the garbage. 

Natasha tries to reply around the thermometer in her mouth, but all the comes out is a sort of strangled squeak. 

Within minutes, Natasha is propped up in bed, sipping hot lemon and honey tea in front of a humidifier, as Pepper unpacks Saltines onto her nightstand and rations out Ginger Ale and Tylenol. 

"Why didn't you just call me to begin with?" Pepper asks, as she finishes loading the dishwasher and somehow, at the same time, putting an extra blanket on the bed.

Natasha tries to explain that she didn't call anyone at all, actually, that she is perfectly fine and self-sufficient and...

She swallows a hot mouthful of tea. "Thank you."

It comes out like a curse, but Pepper, who once worked for Tony Stark, doesn't seem fazed by her poor delivery.

"Of course," Pepper soothes, squeezing fresh lemon into her tea and placing her new remote in her hand. "I'll call you in the morning to check on you, okay?"

As Natasha sips her tea (the perfect temperature, how did Pepper manage it?) and flicks through the channels on a TV that probably can be seen from space, she thinks she might, at last, be feeling just the smallest bit better. 

At least until Nick Fury shows up.


End file.
